So about 4 hours into the trip, as one might expect, we began getting to know each other quite well. So well, in fact, that one bitch decided it would be a great idea to reveal everything we never wanted to know about her.  We found out among other things, that she believed she could out drink all of us.  Despite her chunky 130lbs frame and my undisputable hollow legs which can only be filled with adult beverages, she challenged me.

Unexpectedly, I came prepared.  Prepared with two full bottles of alcohol.  I offered them some of my libation, without announcing that I had accepted the challenge.  Some friendly drinks one might call it.  Shortly after our endeavor I heard an unexpected sound coming from two seats down.  A sound that frightened me to the core, a sound I could not bare to accept. The sound of regret.

An eruption of rum, coke, and Mom’s leftover spaghetti flew all over the floor board of our perfect rental car.   It was official, this bitch had thrown up in the moving vehicle with 2 hours remaining in the trip.  My victory was bitter sweet, like winning a war, but losing a fallen comrade in the process.  Bits of spaghetti shrapnel covered the rear passenger side seating and “the girl who could out drink everyone” was to blame.  Any sign of sympathy could not be found – we hated her instantly.

Eventually we reached our destination.  The smell of leftovers and alcohol filled the air, the whole team could only feel hatred toward our horrible team mate.  We shunned her very existence.  Finding our way into the hotel room we could only attempt to enjoy the evening at this point.  I kicked of my shoes and decided to get some rest for our important meeting in the morning.

Long story short, I kicked ass at the meeting and the spewer sucked.  We still hate her.

There are several theories, mostly amongst males, that attempt to explain this irrational behavior.

1. Fat friends are the previous thin friends who ate everyone’s leftovers.
It rings true that thin girls of average size and weight never finish their meal, but it is also true that this food does not go uneaten. The fat friend gobbles her meal as quickly as possible only to finish her friends nuggets, half eaten burger, and fries as well. However, the hole in this theory is that there seems to be a missing link in the evolution of once thin friend to fat friend. It appears the fat friend has always been the fat friend, not the once thin friend. (Not including newly married friends, newly pregnant friends, or friends subject to the freshman 15-45) So we can conclude this theory does not explain the majority of fat friend cases around the world.

2. Large friends are good for protection from predators.
They are also known as the dreaded “cock blocks”. The fat friends who protect the skinny friends from your relentless attempts at hooking up. Big girls can hold untold amounts of alcohol, so no matter how intoxicated everyone else is they are the sex police, but whether it is out of love or jealousy is unclear. Men also know this as “taking one for the team”. One friend (most likely the loser of paper, scissors, rock) has to sweep the one ton friend off her feet, leaving her unsuspecting friends free from the mother elephant. Meanwhile, Ben is basking in the smell of brisket and musk while Shamoo makes a man out of him – he should have picked scissors!

3. Fat friends boost self confidence.
The bottom line is, huge girls make small girls feel better about themselves. While I doubt you could ever get any group of decent looking women to admit it, the simple fact is they allow giant Birtha to be their friend because in the long run, she is a scape goat for their feelings of self doubt and anxiety about themselves. They can always pick up more guys, get more free drinks, and fit into a small dress than their dear friend, the fat ass. We all know it’s true – the big fat truth about big fat friends.

I have ignored it for as long as I can.  Countless nights I have spent listening to the True Blood saga take place as annoying background “fuzz” while I eat dinner.  So many evenings I have laid in bed resting my eyes while my obsessed significant other reads Twilight, only wishing I was half the vampire the characters in the books are.  Even a couple of my so called “male” friends have grown a vagina and joined in on the fun, pathetic!

These shows and books remind me of bad 80′s porn, but without the porn!  My only hope is that the readers of Jackass Soapbox and all the true men of America stand up and fight this phenomena.  Fight it with the will of any testosterone filled member of mankind.  If we don’t – IF WE FAIL – you will come home soon to find your wife unsatisfied with your manly physique, tanned skin, and callused hands – only to desire a boy with a fair complexion, boyish eyes, and hands as soft as her’s.

You can let this 110lbs fourth grader take your manhood or you can stand and fight!  Refuse to buy all of this shit for the holidays, refuse to have it viewed on your new Sony 60″ HD television with full surround sound, and refuse to role play as a vampire on those dark passionate nights (unless upon your request of course).  If we stand together, united, we can defeat this plague upon popular media and your wife will love you again.

It is no secret that being a parent involves making a lot of sacrifices. I am cool with forfeiture of my gadget money, video game time and three hours of sleep every night. This little monster is carrying my gene pool into the next generation after all. In fact, it almost seems like a privileged to give things up for the little squirt. But something else has also been sacrificed, something I never really thought I would have to give up.

Since the birth of the new baby, my sex life has pretty much shriveled up like an old man’s testicles after taking a dip in a cool stream. There are earthworms out there getting more action than I have as of late. My wife has reduced our love making to a single session a week. ONE TIME A WEEK! And when we do “do it”, it’s usually shameful guilt sex. It’s almost like I asked her to fold a basket of laundry or wash a sink full of dishes. Her typical response to my requests is chiseled in my mind now: “Alright, we’ll do it….. GOSH!”

Sadly, since the beginning of my marriage there appears to have been a steady decline in intercourse. Check out this flow chart outlining said decline.

A steady decline, with the exception of a single, explianable outlier.

Not only has the sex been reduced, we now face hurdles when doing it. Usually the baby starts crying midway through. I talked her into screwing around today and she started leaking milk all over my chest. There I am laying on my back when suddenly, drip…. drip… drip… When my wife reached for her nursing bra, I nearly launched her into the air and off the bed with my awesome hip flex. I was suddenly hit with a super human strength inducing shot of adrenalin when faced with the possibility of having sex with the wrinkly, boob misshaping nursing bra in my face! These grotesque contraptions are some sort of evil, anti boner machine! I never thought that there existed such a thing that could turn me off to boobies, but these ugly, granny bras definitely do the trick.

So there we were, my wife making guilt fueled love to me and I had a towel covering my chest and half my face to soak up all the milk dripping all over place. After she got into the groove the sex was fine, but because I only have sex one time a week, my stamina is shot to hell. I feel like a former Olympiad who used to run marathons but now becomes winded while attempting a fifty yard sprint. I suddenly have the longevity of a 13 year old pleasuring himself to a hustler magazine for the first time. Before he can get his little lizard out of his pants, he’s glued the pages of the magazine together!

I tried resorting to porno movies to get me through the week and to help keep my sexual stamina up, but that didn’t go well at all. I downloaded a ton of stuff from various genres, waited until the wife went to bed, got the baby set in her crib then sneaked off into my little corner of shame. To my dismay, all I found were these crack whore, meth head looking bitches with these huge over sized boobs that wouldn’t even jiggle in an earthquake!

I don’t even understand porn these days. I grew up watching classic stuff from the 70′s. Hand picked masterpieces borrowed from one of my buddy’s father’s private collection cleverly hidden under his bed. Those were real women, with organic breasts, a moderate amount of pubic hair and seductive curves. If anyone knows of a classic pornographic bittorrent tracker, leave me a link in the comments.

The women in porn today all look so angry. Then there are the disgusting looking guys with their monstrous erections that the girls basically start screaming at and hitting them. Yes, in most of the films I previewed the whores literally started smacking the crap out of the guys wieners. Then the chick would usually start spitting everywhere. How do these women have spit that is so thick they can string it across the room? And what’s up with all the tattoos? I saw one girl with this gigantic tramp stamp across her back that actually had a word misspelled in it! I hope that was done on purpose.

Needless to say, the porn didn’t work out, though chicas123.com is nice. Top that off with the fact that I was so paranoid of getting caught the entire time, I really couldn’t get my mojo flowing anyway. So much for that.

Sadly enough, every man knows that his mother in law is probably a good indicator of what his wife will some day become, and my mother in law probably hasn’t given up the pootie tang since the late 80′s! I always adhered to the sad delusion that my wife would be different, but now I see the foreshadowing of what will probably be a sad sexual future for myself.

Here’s to hoping some pharmaceutical company develops a clear, odorless, and tasteless female libido enhancing drug soon. If that doesn’t work out, I guess I can always resort to slipping my wife the roofie.

Let's get fit in 2009!

Another year is nearing its end and all around me people are lively and excited with their hopes and aspirations for the New Year to come.  Resolutions are bountiful as usual.  I hear one over weight friend vow to lose weight, another vow to quit smoking and a few fellow coworkers vow to get more exercise.  One fellow down the hall plans to finish his college degree and another in the office next to him even jokingly muses about dumping his hag of a wife.

Everybody seems to be having a great time declaring these exciting, life changing plans for the next year to come. Personally, I think making plans are fun too. It gives you something to live for and aspire to.  It’s healthy to set goals and work towards them in life.  But frankly, all of you and your New Year resolutions make me want to puke.  If you were not motivated enough to work towards any given goal during any other time of the year, why would you suddenly start now?

New Year resolutions are a joke. They are another marketing gimmick used to swindle away a few more of the hopelessly hopeful’s dollars by creating the prospect of easily losing a few extra pounds or sculpting an abdominal muscle out of their chubby mid-section.  They are an excuse for the lethargic glutton to have another helping of fried chicken at the local hog trough (otherwise known as a buffet) while telling those around him that this is the last meal of fried food he’s eating before starting his New Years diet!  And New Year resolutions are the excuses every other underachiever out there uses to put off all the great things they are going to do… UNTIL THE NEW YEAR!

New Year resolutions don’t just annoy me, they intrude on my life.  Already my local fitness club is becoming over crowded in the evenings.  Dozens of new faces suddenly pop up, pumping and sweating away with their dream of looking like a movie star glistening in their eyes.  They’ll all be gone by Valentine’s Day. Infomercials promoting miracle diets, total body transformations and promises to help you instantly quit smoking (or any other bad habit you might have) pollute  some of my favorite deep cable television channel’s time slots and my ears bleed from the endless speech I have to endure day in and out about all these new, wonderful plans. It’s maddening.

Instead of wasting your money on the next miracle diet, gym membership or that next wonderful panacea that promises to make all your problems go away, why don’t you just give your money to me! Empty your wallets jackasses!

And don’t assume I am some holier than thou, super motivated, over achiever who grabs everything I want in life by the horns and forcefully take what’s theirs. I’m not above making resolutions, I’m just not self delusional to actually make them.  I look at myself in the mirror every morning and think two things: #1. Holy crap my eyebrows are bushy and #2:  I’m a loser, a totally awesome loser but a loser none the less.  I’m no better than any of you… well most of you.

This year for fun, every time I hear a coworker, acquaintance or friend announce a new resolution, I offer up one of my own.  These are the resolutions of a real man, a truly awesome beast of a human being! Enjoy.

My resolutions:

1. Eat more pork fried rice.  (Simply because it’s delicious!)
2. Eat tacos for lunch every day in February, covered in cheese dip (Offered to an overweight acquaintance vowing to lose weight while dining on fattening Mexican food).
3. Stop peeing in the sink in men’s restrooms (Announced in a crowded mall restroom, while casually talking on the phone to someone and taking a pee.)
4. Find a more rewarding job (Offered in response to my boss’ announcement that he plans to lose weight next year. It was a joke by the way).
5. Forward more mind numbing, inbox cluttering, SPAM email. (Sent as a reply-to-all in an email listing great ideas for New Year resolutions. Easily four hundred people got that message!)
6. Stop wasting so much of my life on a blog no one reads.  (Because no one really cares what you have to say.)

That’s it! Happy New Year!

Join in on the fun!

Do a Google image search on midgets and you’ll find tons of disturbing, mini, fun sized filth. Click the link and check it out for yourself!

A while back I received a forwarded email about the great bar sport of Midget Tossing. The game captivated me. I found myself wishing I could become a midget for one night (but only one since midgets are scary looking) so I could participate in the event. I wanted to get hammered, drape myself in a Velcro Superman costume and be thrown onto a big, fuzzy wall.

Like every other junk email reading American in the world, I fired up Google and immediately did a search for images of midgets. Turns out that was a badchoice. Immediately tons of midget porn shots popped up in the results. Page after page, I found images of midget women indulging themselves with penises as long and tall as their tiny bodies. A search for dwarf tossing returned one result of a little hot midget chick licking butt hole (get it, tossing as in tossing salad!) As intrigued as I was, I left my viewing to a quick peek show and closed the browser after a few page views. The last thing I needed was to get fired for looking at midget porn at work.

So a few days went by, nothing was said and I figured no one noticed what I had stumbled on to at work. Then Friday afternoon came… my boss buzzed my phone and asked me into his office. I immediately began freaking out inside.

Most people appear to have very one sided relationships with their boss. Anytime mine has ever called me (or anyone I suspect) into his office, it’s not to congratulate me on a job well done or give me a pat on the back, it’s rarely to outline a new project he wants me to work on and seldom is it to discuss a new idea or pass a proposal by me. Every time my boss has ever called me into his office, it was because I was in some kind of trouble. And getting called into his office on a Friday afternoon could only mean one thing, my ass was grass. My goose was cooked. I was being fired.

During my first year in the work force, completely green, inexperienced and literally right out of college, I had to learn a few rookie lessons.  Innocent comments and small jokes made in emails (even emails you didn’t necessarily write) can be damning. Even a personal website like this one can be damning, which is why it’s ever important to never name your work place, or write directly about anyone you work with in a negative light!

I learned quickly as a rookie employee that 1st Amendment rights, comedic satire and baseless accusations take a backseat to an overweight female with low self esteem and too much time on their hands. Baseless accusations still have to be pursued when they arise, which is why if I walked into my bosses office today and said Jimmy down the hall sexually harassed me by the coffee machine, he’d have to reprimand Jimmy. It’s a sad fact of life.

Needless to say, I’ve since decided to wise up and start flying under the radar. I ceased all email correspondence to co-workers that was not business related and limited water cooler talk to a simple hello and goodbye. I am sad to say that I have learned the corporate world can be a cold, humorless place.

Now here I am, Friday afternoon sitting in the chair directly across from my boss. He’s on the phone with someone and I am fidgeting with my wedding ring, anxiously wondering why I’m here. I quickly ran through the various scenarios mentally as I waited to be addressed:

“What could I have done,” I thought, “Did I sexually harass someone? Did I tell another bad joke or send a bad email? Nope, none of that is possible. I’m never late. I’ve made all my deadlines… Oh crap! MIDGET PORN!” I had figured it out. I was getting fired for looking at midget porn.

My boss hung up the phone, “Peavey, I was looking over your performance review and I noticed a few things that needed to be changed a bit. Sign here so I can turn it into HR.” I looked at him almost dumbfounded. “Oh, I’m not in trouble? Alright, where do I sign?”

Whew! Disaster averted. Peavey lives to fly another day.

I must admit though, later that night I did masturbate to some of those midgets. Just kidding, those little Oompa Loopas freak me out.  That one pic I uncovered of the midget tossing salad nearly made me toss my cookies.

Recently my sixty something year old grandmother came down for a visit. I decided to be the decent grandson and went to the airport to pick her up. Before even agreeing to the deed I warned my wife that it would be a disaster.

“Why is it going to be a disaster? All you have to do is go pick up your grandmother from the airport.” My wife asked, smirking and amused by my typical exaggerated emotional outpouring. I reassured her, pacing around the living room, arms waving up and down, my tone heightened and excited “Nothing is easy with these people, something will go wrong, someone will freak out about it and I’m going to get pissed. You don’t want to go with me. Just let me do this alone.” At the time she laughed at my sincerity, assuming I was making something out of nothing and insisted she ride along.

Shortly after the conversation outlining how this entire ordeal would turn into a disaster I called my mom to tell her I’d go pick up the old lady for her. Immediately the barrage started. “Now Peavey, you know she can’t walk well and you’re going to have to carry her bags for her,” also adding, “and Peavey, please don’t say anything stupid to her, you know she believes everything you say about anything.”

Immediately the sarcastic eye rolls began. A mere minute later my aunt called, word travels fast in our family. “Peavey, listen to me. I need a huge favor from you. Can you do me a favor?” “Yeah, sure.” I replied flatly. “Now listen Peavey, this is serious. You’re grandmother is in very bad condition. She can’t walk. I need a favor from you; can you do me a favor?”

Her heavy Minnesota-Wisconsin accented voice rattled around in my head, reminding me so much of my mother but even more intense than she is. “Yes, I’ll do a favor for you.” I replied frustrated. “Well, if you’re going to get an attitude I won’t ask you. But I don’t know how your grandmother is going to get off the plane.” She shot back.

I sat silently a moment, already feeling exhausted from the short conversation. “Are you there? Peavey, are you there?” she asked. “What can I do for you Aunt Beth?” I replied blankly.

“Alright, look. You’re grandmother is in bad health….” and so the story started all over again. I heard about how her mother’s ankles were swollen, her knees shot and basically her legs were going to literally pop off at the hip like a broken Barbie doll if I did not get a wheel chair, board her plane, pick her up and place her in that chair then wheel her to my car.

That morning before leaving to retrieve my grandmother, I easily received a dozen more calls between my mom and aunt, all reminding me of the same thing over and over and over again. It was mind numbing. It felt like hanging out with a little annoying retarded kid who asks your name over and over. You desire so badly to kick them in the balls then point and laugh at their goofy sobbing but you can’t because everyone will think you’re a bad person if you beat up the retarded kids.

My wife and I made our way down to the airport, which happens to be one of the busiest airports in the world, and began the task of getting a wheel chair and boarding pass. I was standing in line to be x-rayed and racially profiled when I looked over to the side where a strange Indian woman was bent over her suit case, popping the top of it.

“Shoosh… shoosh…” She hit the suitcase sharply. A little yippy dog spun around in a fury inside the bag, yipping, crying and growling. The mutt clawed frantically at the interior of its canvas prison. I’d have offered her a few Xanax to slip into the doggy doggy treats but I was fresh out after the marathon of mindless conversations with my aunt and mother that morning.

After wading through a sea of faces I made my way to the gate. I was about 10 minutes late at this point and begin looking around for my grandmother only she was nowhere to be found. I approached the gate attendant, “Has Delta flight 219 arrived?” “Yes sir, the flight arrived 20 minutes early.” he replied.

I looked around confused. At this point the old lady had been unsupervised for half an hour and was no where to be seen. I explored that section of the terminal, visiting every shop, kiosk and news stand, wondering past every gate. She was no where to be found. I rang her up… no answer. Her phone was turned off.

I approached another attendant, “Can you page someone for me?” I asked. “Sure, what’s her name and flight number?” Seconds later the page came over the intercom. I sat tight and still no sign. I called again, no answer, phone was still turned off.

I called my mother. “Why is her phone off? She has wondered away from her gate at the busiest airport in the world and she doesn’t have her phone on?” I proclaimed sarcastically. “Where is she?” I shouted! My mother provided no solution, ideas or explanations. In fact, she almost seems indifferent.

After 25 minutes of wondering around, I approached another attendant. “I’ve lost my grandmother.” That was the only thing I knew to say. Feelings of guilt began to flood my mind, my gut began convulsing and I felt sick. I had really lost my grandmother. Then my guilt faded and the primal self preservation instinct took over. “My mother will never let me forget this.” I murmured. “I will be reminded at every family gathering, during every phone call and it will be brought up in every conversation for the rest of her life that I lost my grandmother at the airport. This is a disaster”

At this point I had but one viable option, leave and never come back. Simply disappear from the face of the earth. Move to Buffalo, New York or Des Moines, Iowa or some other lame city where she’d never dare visit.

“What flight was she on sir?” The attendant asked. I was so caught up in myself that I almost forgot I had asked her for help. “Delta Flight 219″ I replied. “Sir, you’re at the wrong terminal. Her flight ended up landing in Concourse E.”

I was floored. By now my grandmother had been wondering around for over an hour and instead of arriving at the closest concourse, she was now in the furthest away. I made my way as quickly as possible to concourse E, trying my best not to look like a frantic mad man or terrorist.

All along I had been calling her; still my grandmother had not turned her phone on. I finally arrived at the gate they said her flight had landed at. She was no where to be seen, another overhead page, more waiting and still more nothing.

My only thought was that my grandmother had began nagging someone and they lured her into the restroom, killed her and stuffed her in a trash receptacle. That was the only explanation. After all, this woman was crippled, how is she even getting around?

Buzzz…. Buzz…. My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Hello.” I answered. “Peavey? Where are you parked?” It was my grandmother. “What? Grandma, where are you?” I asked, now completely exhausted. “I’m at baggage claim. I’m getting my bags.” She explained. “What!? I thought you were crippled. They said you couldn’t walk. Are you in a wheel chair? Did someone help you?” I was exasperated. My timid little grandmother chuckled a bit, “No, I just walked down here.” So I didn’t lose my grandmother after all.

My wife had stayed behind in the food court and when I told her the story of what I had been through she was speechless. Between the airline madness, my grandmother forgetting to turn on her cell phone and, my mother and aunt convincing me that she couldn’t even walk, it turned out just as I predicted, a disaster.

Every little girl dreams of working at The Varsity!

Today is Halloween. Kids are dressed up everywhere, a feeling of mischievousness is in the air and candy is abundant. My little cousins, nieces and nephews are dressed up like princesses and ghouls, and a few are even Varsity workers! Others have their faces painted or are wearing funny wigs and masks, and at this moment in life everything seems great… except for one thing.

I look down into one of my little cousin’s Trick-or-treat bag and find nothing but cheap-o Dollar Tree candy hell. I see an assortment of hard candy, pixie sticks, sweet tarts and crummy sub-fun sized candy bars. Masses of assorted candies bought for 99 cent a bag at the local dollar store. Having not gone Trick-or-treating for over a decade now, I had forgotten how bad the innocent Trick-or-treater can really get burned on Halloween. In working for a better tomorrow for the children, I propose we reform the Halloween season.

To begin with, I declare that there should be a new unspoken rule for all those deciding to hand out candy in observance of this grand tradition. If you can get a certain type of candy free somewhere else on any of the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year, don’t hand it out on Halloween. Every time a child visits the bank, they’re given Dum-Dums. Every time the kids visit their old great uncle, aunt or grand parent at the nursery home, they’re given crusty, decade old, hard candy. Go to a receptionist’s desk, there will be assorted mints or life savers available. Therefore, all these types of candy are off limits Halloween night.

Secondly, don’t be one of those people who give out tooth brushes, floss or fruit as treats. If you do so, you wholly deserve a trick in return! What kind of a monster promotes healthy dental hygiene and eating habits on Halloween? The fight against tooth decay and childhood obesity can wait for Easter. But for God’s sake, today is holy. Today is a day of gluttony, mischief, tomfoolery and naughtiness.

I also beg of all you cheap asses to stop handing out the Pixie Stix. Let’s agree to retire this horrible treat, if you can even call it a treat. Does Pixie Stix even qualify as candy? It is sugar packaged up in a paper tube. It’s like a redneck junkie’s equivalent of methamphetamine. You don’t even have to buy Pixie Stix; you could grab a bag of sugar out of the pantry, mix it with Kool-aid and start bagging up your own little hits of the sweet stuff. Last Halloween I saw some diabetic kid trying to free base a Pixie Stick out of a Pez Dispenser. Holy Shit kid, get a hold of yourself! He had already busted up and snorted all his Pez, and for some odd reason opted to try and smoke the Pixie Stix. See, that’s what this poison does to our youth. They don’t even know how to property ingest their drug… err, I mean candy. RETIRE THE PIXIE STIX!

Next, we have to ban overly sticky, infinitely chewy candy. This mainly refers to all the off branded, unfamiliar caramel type candies that generally only show up around Halloween, but could also include Milk Duds and Laffy Taffy. Personally, I enjoy eating these types of candy, but they are too much trouble. Normally I’d be all for something that glues a kids mouth shut, but at the same time these candies are so sticky they’re ripping out fillings or even teeth, and there is always that fat kid who stuffs five too many pieces in his mouth then grows tired of chewing and tries to swallow the entire softball sized wad of goo. Last year we had a little chunker pull a stunt like that and I decided to let him choke to death. Just kidding, I Heimlicked that little gordito so hard his genitals receded up into his body. He now has a vagina and we changed his name from Michael to Michelle.

Lastly, lay off the ultra fun sized candy bars. The cheap-o people out there love these things. It’s a nice cop-out used to appear to be giving away the good candy when really, you are giving so little of it away at once that a single bag stretches across a hundred little costumed bastards. These minis are generally the delicious, chocolate candy we all know, love and crave so much on this wonderful night, only they’re extra fun sized (a euphemism for extra tiny)! I think they are best described as a fun sized candy bar sliced into quarters.

If you decide to give out candy, do it the right way. Either go for gold, handing out full sized candy bars (and ensuring your house not only avoids being rolled and egged, but also protected) or give out two or three of the fun sized chocolate bars. Other wise, turn off your porch light and do not bother insulting us with your sub par, Dollar Tree selection of goodies.

Thank you and I hope you all will assist me in making Halloween great for many more generations to come.

My Artistic Rendition of the Bubble Girl

I love to hate people who think they are allergic to everything. These sad little peons fear all types of microorganisms. They use their hypochondria to attain special treatment and sympathy and more times than not, we all suck it up like a thirsty dog lapping up antifreeze on a hot summer day.

These people refuse to use public restrooms or touch stair case railings. Some of the more extreme wear face masks while out doors. Others install special lenses in their glasses to protect their fragile pupils from the sun and constantly apply lotions with sunscreen mixed in to prevent melanoma. These pansies are never comfortable, something always ails them and they are always sure to announce their discomfort to the entire room. I refer specifically to the woman at the office who is always cold in the summer and hot in the winter, the old man who constantly complains of aches, or the over cautious parents who disinfect every aspect of their children’s lives.

I feel ill myself over the over reactions and restrictions these people place on themselves. The only cure to my ailment is to go behind them and do everything they see as hazardous to their fragile health. I take big dumps in nasty gas stations, eat food off the floor and the only time I use disinfectants is when cleaning up fecal matter.

I frequently eat seven day old food long forgotten in the fridge, and consume eggs and milk that are long out of date, I dine regularly at the local Mexican joint nicknamed la coucaracha and I have used the same coffee mug for the past year without washing it once! I don’t wash my hands after taking pisses unless I splash some on me and if my chicken is a little raw in the middle, I keep on chomping.

Despite all this, the only time I use sick leave at work is to take in ball games with my buddies or to do something else kick ass.

I write about this in response to a news story I just read about a woman from Pennsylvania who actually lives in a chemical free bubble most of her day. The poor thing claims the outside world just makes her sick. Oh bubble girl, you poor, poor victim.

But please, do not worry about bubble girl; she is cared for by a highly trained doctor. The news story goes on to report that her local physician is an expert in the highly specialized field of pseudoscience. After all, every hypochondriac needs a good pseudo scientist to endorse their misconceptions and feed their fears!

Turns out, we have a bubble girl here at work! I have worked with her for two and a half years yet I could not tell you her name. We simply call her Bubble Girl. Bubble Girl enjoys sitting at a desk in the common area/hall way between all our offices. She used to have an office of her own, but some kind of strange odor or smell in the air activated violent allergies making it impossible for her to work. Despite the fact that she worked in this office for nearly a year before and the entire building was cleansed using a series of super, giant HEPA-filter equipped air purifiers that resembled Transformers; the air in that office still makes her ill.

At Bubble Girl’s desk is a personal fan, an air purified, a space heater and even a special foot rest that allows her to keep her feet propped up at all times. She has a special ergonomic keyboard and mouse and extra thick, padded wrist pads too. Despite having two, $10,000, high powered laser printers less than 25 feet away from her, she has her own personal, less efficient inkjet printer on her desktop. Despite having a community coffee pot (which she also sits only a few feet from), she has her own mini coffee pot.

In front of Bubble Girl, in the pathway of us office dwellers, is her own personal file cabinet covered in pictures of her children, and conveniently, four days a month is Bring Your Kids to Work Day (but only for Bubble Girl) because at least one day a week she brings her son to work with her! And all of this takes place in our office hall way.

Thanks to Bubble Girl we enjoy hot days in the summer and cool days in the winter. Bubble Girl is always uncomfortable and always sickly and the thermostat in the office is always set to a temperature suitable to meet her needs! When it gets too warm in the office during the summer, Bubble Girl turns on her personal fan. When it gets too cool in the winter, Bubble Girl turns on her space heater. Meanwhile, I’m either applying extra deodorant and wiping the sweat from my brow or wearing gloves with the fingertips cut off so I can keeps my hands warm and still type.

I love you so much Bubble Girl, you are the best!

But seriously, what’s the deal with the unfairness in all this. It’s simply a cultural injustice. We love to accommodate these candy asses. An even more important question, what is the deal with all these pussies. Are you all not ashamed to be pussies? Quit being pussies.

Say it with me everyone:

“QUIT BEING PUSSIES”

I wish I could kick Bubble Girl in the ovaries. A sharp shot to the baby maker; that would fix her. And God help me if I were to ever meet a Bubble Boy. I would be a little less inclined to keep my thoughts restricted to a blog no one reads if that were the case.

Please, say it with me again:

“QUIT BEING PUSSIES”

Thank You.
Read more about the real life bubble girl.

"I can not keep my face away from those swollen, handsome udders."

Last week my wife and I took a tour of the hospital she is birthing our child at. It was an insanely painful ordeal. We were caught in a group of 5 families, all of different walks of life and all including a very pregnant woman, each unknowingly torturing me in her own way.

I begin with the 16 year old having a child with her black boyfriend. I do not point out that her boyfriend is black because I object to her having a child with a person of different ethnicity, I am simply painting a picture of the situation and this was certainly the stereotypical low class white girl coming strait out of the trailer park and the ghetto ass looking black kid boyfriend with the seat of his pants sagging to the floor.

The poor girl could not have been any more inexperienced in life if she wanted, in fact at one point in the tour the guide asked if anyone was considering having their baby boys circumcised and the youngster asked her mother what circumcision was. To make the situation even more mind numbing, the tour registration form explicitly requested only the mother and father and a third guest attend the tour and to not bring children under twelve unless they were a sibling. These two brought most of their extended family including three children under twelve. I assume they had not yet learned to read, they were too busy having sex in the bathroom on that day in literature class. I am thrilled that we, the tax payers most certainly will be footing the bill for their child to be born! Medicare FOR THE WIN!

Next we had the all natural, holistic, don’t let a vaccination come near my baby, mother to be! No group of pregnant women would be complete without one of these fear mongers. This hippie nut job was obviously insane. She was to be made certain that her child would not be exposed to any chemicals, vaccines or anything else. In fact, I would not be surprised if she didn’t bring in her own wheat grass and soy protein supplements to grind up into the child’s formula while enjoying her stay at the hospital. And of course she opted to give birth naturally in a birthing pool. Let’s not neglect to mention that since she wished to use the birthing pool, we had to add another fifteen minutes to the tour to learn all about this special contraption that really looked like nothing more than an over priced hot tub.

All in all, I could really care less who does what in these situations but if you really wish to go all natural like the women of yesteryear, quite using these modern luxuries like baby birthing hot tubs or “healing gardens” (yes, the hospital has an herbal healing garden). Quit kidding yourselves. I am sick and disgusted by these elitist hippies who pride themselves on the idea that they are some how closer to nature, purer and therefore better than the normal (epidural receiving) populace due to the fact that they opt to pass on scientifically proven practices like receiving vaccines and pain medications. If you want to give natural child do it the real way nature intended it. Go out in the woods, spread out a burlap sack, squat over that thing and shit that baby out old school style. What a bunch of pathetic posers.

Next in line for my critique of our tour mates are the insanely hot soon to be mom and her tattoo laden guy. Both were quiet, she was gorgeous beyond words and I secretly wish I too could be covered in tattoos like her beau, so no complaints there. She was actually my guiding light during the tour. I was constantly reminded of how much I love pregnant women’s cleavage. It seems that most women simply do not know how to contain their preggo cleavage. It has to be because they never had it before and now that they suddenly do they aren’t adept to the idea of wearing the less revealing bras or shirts. Regardless, I am convinced this single phenomenon accounts for easily a third of the population and believe many men only impregnate their wives a second or third time due to the discovery and craving of more preggo cleavage.

The preggo cleavage has practically enslaved me. Since my wife has been pregnant I feel like a calf permanently affixed to his mother’s teat. I can not keep my face away from those swollen, handsome udders (she’ll kill me when she reads that I called her breasts udders!) All I could do was day dream about this gorgeous pregnant woman with the perfectly manicured toe nails, intentionally sloppy hair and magnificently swollen breasts and my wife with all the same features getting it on. Is this not a sign of mental illness, imagining your pregnant wife and another pregnant women making lesbian love with their pregnant bellies? And all this fanaticizing took place during a tour outlining the process of woman ejecting a living person from their vaginas. Damn I have some issue to deal with. I’m sure Freud has something to say about this.

Then there was the fifth couple. This last couple was normal as could be. Late 20s to early 30s, married, both appeared educated, employed and friendly enough. I bet they even had their own insurance and were not relying on government assistance. But this couple or rather the pregnant specimen of this duo was actually the worse of the lot. Yes, worse than the child having a child, the hippie mom to be or the mentally torturous milf in the making. This woman was interested in EVERY detail of our lives!

Every man has known this woman. I face half a dozen here at work every day. These women love the idea of pregnancy. They want to know:

When are you due? What will you name it? What doctor you are going to use? What hospital will you use? Have you picked out a pediatrician yet? Will you breast feed? Vaginal or cesarean birth? Cloth or disposable diapers? What colors will you use in the nursery? How many people will you have in the room during the birth? Do you think it will turn out gay? What if it wants to be an atheist? Did you actually want to have a boy/girl? Are you taking birthing or Lamaze classes? Have you been craving any strange foods? Are your ankles swollen like mine? Is sex uncomfortable? Have you had trouble clipping your own toe nails?

And so on.

No, these questions are not made up. I’ve heard them all asked one time or the other and this woman on this tour was asking away. These women are a scourge; they are too damn curious and outright nosy. No body cares and we will never talk to most of them ever again so let’s cut the small talk and go about our merry ways. I swear this phenomenon only exists amongst women. Dudes do not care. Not that we won’t talk about it if someone brings it up, we simply don’t. We have cooler things to do like play golf, watch football and masturbate.

So screw you women and screw your unbearable hospital tours and birthing classes. Minus the preggo cleavage, the entire process of pregnancy sucks! And yet, I will probably do it all again for another taste of those milky, honey suckle udders! Yum. I guess it’s not all bad.